


Nuts

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Multi, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, but Bermuda is definitely dtf and has coconuts to bribe her way, the canukr is really mild in this sorry as Ukraine doesn't actually appear in-person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Belarus is determined to cheer up her sister (and if that involves dragging a hapless someone over to take Ukraine out on a date, so be it).





	Nuts

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This (including the notes) was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.

“Have you seen Canada?”

“Canada?” England’s second-noisiest child looks bewildered when Belarus accosts him outside just outside her team’s building, Australia jerking back a step in surprise and hauling New Zealand, whose shoulders he has an arm slung over, with him.

“The one who is like America, but north,” says Belarus, impatient and very much wishing the two men in front of her could just answer her question and let her be on her way. “Less loud. His white bear chews on people’s heads.”

Australia looks offended that Belarus gave him details, screwing up his eternally-bandaged nose at her like one of the endless animals he always seems to carry about with him at world meetings. “I know who Canada is!”

“I’ve seen him,” says New Zealand, a lot more calmly than Australia. “He, Bermuda, and some of their athletes are having a match at the volleyball court, with the losers paying for coconuts.”

Australia turns his betrayed eyes on his… brother(?). “They’re having a competition for coconuts and you didn’t _tell_ me?”

“Well maybe if your eyes hadn’t been too busy falling out of their head when that pretty Indonesian woman went past…”

Belarus leaves them both to their bickering, heading towards the recreational volleyball court and stepping around crowds of humans and fellow Nations all the way. Three times people try to stop her - once, a kiosk vendor, and the other two times Andorran and Cuban athletes whose events are clearly over, trying to flirt -, and they all get a flat _no_ and Belarus moving swiftly on from them.

Canada is no longer on the volleyball court when she gets there - a very determined-looking Germany, Bulgaria, and Romania versus Ireland, Prussia (in German colours) and Mexico seem to have taken over, much to the loud and jumbled international glee of anyone wandering past. (or perhaps people are just amused at Hungary, who is refereeing one of the lines and keeps loudly encouraging the sweating Germany to take his shirt off. _Why?_ He is pink as a pig.) There is, however, many athletes wearing red and white milling about nearby the court, watching the new match, about half of which liberally decorated with maple leaves. Canada _is_ among those, standing talking to a tan, dark-haired young woman wearing the same colours of the other half of their crowd.

The woman has the sense of _Nation_ about her. She is Bermuda, if what New Zealand had said before is correct, another former British child - this one of warm climes, canny eyes, and a magical predilection, if the rumours are true, for sinking bothersome ships. Her arms full of cracked-open coconuts decorated with brightly coloured paper umbrellas.

…In fact, Belarus cannot tell who won the great volleyball match of rumour, as everyone she can see appears to have coconuts.

No matter.

Belarus pushes her way through people to come up behind Canada, grabbing him by the back of his collar and immediately dragging him off. Luckily, he is not as heavy as his brother.

 _“Ah!_ Hey -” Canada’s feet scrabble in the sand and dirt underfoot, his hands flailing for the grip on the back of his jacket, “wait, wait -” he squirms enough he can finally look at who is dragging him, eyes huge as his glasses slip askew down his nose, _“Belarus?!”_

“I am borrowing you,” Belarus informs him, not slowing her pace. The Bermudian and Canadian athletes move to clear her path like a semi-literal parting of the Red Sea, and what Nations there are about wisely shift as well. None of them do it as quickly as Belarus would like.

 _“‘Borrowing?!’”_ Canada’s voice hits an octave Belarus is familiar with inspiring in people. (They get hysterical so easily.) Usually it means she is succeeding at something. “What _for?”_

“My sister has confined herself to her rooms.” For fairly obvious reasons, the Ukrainian team has been told to avoid Russian media groups. Ukraine believes in solidarity with her athletes - and has, mistakenly, gotten it into her head that the best way to express this solidarity is to stay indoors. At all times, save for sporting events involving her people. Belarus strongly disagrees as, for some strange reason, Ukraine _likes_ people. Not just individual people, but _people as a whole_. It is not good for her to be alone. “This makes her sad, but she will not listen to me. For some unfathomable reason she _likes_ you, and you are not entirely intolerable, so you will make her listen to you and make her happy.”

Perhaps Ukraine might actually open her apartment _door_ to this one.

“Thank…you?” Canada seems to recognise Belarus’ high praise when she gives it, which earns him minute points in his favour. At least Ukraine does not bestow her affection on complete idiots. “Wait -” …Never mind. “Ukraine is sad?”

“That is what I said.” Belarus does not have the patience to explain things all over again. Every minute spent explaining is a minute wasted in effort _not_ reaching the building where she stays with Ukraine. Even if they walk and talk, the talking uses up energy that could be spent on walking.

“Wait, hold on.” Canada reaches up and circles the wrist attached to the hand Belarus is gripping his collar with. Belarus pauses, feeling her bones press sharply into Canada’s larger, calloused palm; he has a surprisingly strong grip. “You’re serious.”

Belarus glares. She wouldn’t have crossed half the Olympic Village and started hauling away someone so gangly and obtuse if she wasn’t.

Canada, cautiously getting his feet back under him now Belarus is no longer pulling him along by the back of his neck, reads her silence correctly, if the slightly sheepish look on his face has anything to say about it. Belarus releases him (and frees her own wrist), since he clearly has _something_ trapped on his tongue that he wishes to say to her, though he fiddles around for too long pushing his glasses back up his nose first.

“…I have an idea, alright?” He sounds like he is asking permission. Good. “Wait for me here; I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”

“You will n-” Belarus starts, immediately ready to squash the suggestion - she is quite familiar with all the excuses someone can make when they plan not to return -, but Canada is already sidling away from her, putting at least two humans between himself and Belarus before she thinks to grab him again. It will not be good if she injures a human; they break much more easily than Nations. “Canada!”

Canada just keeps sidling - and takes off at a run when Belarus pushes past the humans between them, one bright red jacket in a sea of thousands coloured every shade of every rainbow.

…It is well beneath Belarus’ dignity to chase after him. She does not _chase_ people. She hunts them down, yes, but slowly, steadily, and when they least expect it, especially if they have annoyed her.

It is with this thought in mind that Belarus resigns herself to watching with a scowl and some frustration as Canada disappears into the distance, off to places unknown.

“Hey,” a voice speaks from just behind Belarus, female and English strangely accented. British? American?

Belarus casts a disinterested look over her shoulder, expecting to see one of the disgruntled humans she had pushed aside, but finds instead the Nation that Canada had been talking to, most of the humans wisely wandering away from the crazy Caribbean woman daring to talk to the glaring eastern European one.

Bermuda had stepped quickly and lightly to get so near Belarus - a small feat (Belarus had been occupied with other formerly British nuisances), but one that earns her some of Belarus’ grudging respect. Her eyes are England’s sharp bright green, looking at them directly, set in an equally feline, if darker, face.

Belarus cannot recall England _smiling_ at her though, even if Bermuda’s smile looks like a vaguely assessing thing, studying and categorising an unknown variable. Belarus studies her just as shamelessly right back, her eyes flicking from Bermuda’s long, lithe legs exposed by her shorts, up to the two remaining coconuts in Bermuda’s arms (the rest, it seems, have been given away in pursuit of Belarus), and up again to the rich brown curls tumbling down from Bermuda’s high ponytail.

“I know it’s a little hard to believe considering he’s basically the offspring of the British and the French, but when Canada promises something, he always does his best to follow through.” Bermuda extends one of the two coconuts she still carries out to Belarus, clearly intending for Belarus to take it, as though there is nothing strange about giving away food and drink to someone who has just dragged away your conversational partner and family(?) by the scruff of his neck. “He’s totally going to be a while though, so do you want his coconut?”

When Canada finally returns to the volleyball court, his arms full of sunflowers, Belarus has been drawn down onto a stone seat beside Bermuda, both of them watching Mexico and Ireland spinning around the court in celebration of their latest match point as Romania loudly argues in the background with Hungary ( _referees are supposed to be_ impartial!). They are both on their third coconut, the milk already drunk, Bermuda has her jacket off, and every time she hacks off another chunk of coconut meat to eat her wrist brushes a new set of dark numbers scrawled up the inside of Belarus’ forearm.

“I went to the florist,” says Canada, a bit pink-cheeked and breathless, when Belarus looks at him askance. At least he seems to understand the importance of cheering Ukraine up as soon as possible, if he ran all the way. “Sunflowers are Ukraine’s national flower.”

Belarus looks approvingly at the yellow and blue ribbons tying up the flowers, standing and giving Bermuda the rest of her coconut to finish. “You are not a complete failure.” Ukraine will feel _obliged_ to open her door to accept a present.

Still seated, Bermuda stretches out her legs and snorts. “Give him some rope and he’ll hang himself with it.”

Canada says something rude to her in his peculiar French.

Bermuda says something equally rude to him in reply in her just as peculiar Portuguese. And then, in English, to Belarus. “Call me? Especially if he fucks it up.”

“More food,” Belarus retorts, ignoring the bare ankle that knocks cajolingly against hers. “Then we talk.”

“More f-?” Canada looks bewildered at the exchange - and then takes note of the empty coconut shells and straws stacked up around Bermuda’s seat, and the way the woman herself is nonchalantly scraping out more meat to eat from the last two coconuts with anything left inside of them. His face flashes with betrayed realisation. “You gave her _my coconut?”_

Bermuda just waves and smiles at him merrily as Belarus drags him away, Canada squawking once more at the grip on his neck. Ukraine and this one can cheer _each other_ up at this rate.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me how I end up with absurd rarepairs featuring OCs because it surprised me too. Bermuda got every hot, canny and difficult gene from her father figures that they had to give, and probably delights in having hotter FWBs than America.


End file.
